Letters From Hell
by Natasha Shaitanova
Summary: Draco is dead and is writing letters to Harry from his new home. At least, that is what Harry thinks when he reads the letters and writes back. Maybe not everything is what it seems, but according to Draco, we all like to pretend. "Dear Harry..." Complete
1. Dear Harry

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Letters From Hell_

_By Natasha Shaitanova

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_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own _Harry Potter_. Uh…should I also place a disclaimer on the Bible?

A/N: I stumbled upon the idea in a different fandom and readapted it with a more personal conclusion.

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Dear Harry, 

Don't scream, baby, please just hear me out.

It's not the same here, you know? It's so dark, but not like back in our apartment at night. The dark gets in your eyes and you can't even look around because you can't be sure that you're even looking. I pretend I can see a spark sometimes, but I've learned to play a lot of pretend games down here, Harry.

Same goes for the silence. It fills my ears and it feels so heavy. Remember when we fought and you wouldn't speak to me? Remember how the silence would just press down on you and after a while you felt so constricted that you couldn't be sure you'd make a sound if you spoke?

It's kind of like that, Harry, only feels a million times worse.

I'm so hot here. The heat is sweltering, coming from inside me, from whatever is beneath, radiating from the darkness itself. Who knows, maybe I'm on fire? But I would see if I was on fire, wouldn't I? I wish I was on fire just so I could see the flames, Harry.

There is this constant breeze around me, tugging at my clothes and hair, though it does nothing for the heat. I guess they must be clothes and that must be a breeze, though, that's what it feels like. I still turn around sometimes, to try and see where it's coming from, but…well, you know already. There's not much to see.

You know, maybe I'm still too arrogant and conceited, but I kind of hoped I would go to heaven. I never believed in these things before, but isn't this what muggleborns described hell to be like? It sure doesn't feel like a heaven.

Which reminds me, Harry, do you know how I died? Because I don't. All I remember is that I was with you and then suddenly I wasn't. How did I get here? You'll tell me, won't you?

When I think about it, it's not really the darkness or the heat or the wind that bothers me. It's the silence.

I feel bodies around me, Harry, but they are so still and mute. I guess the longer you're dead, the less conversational you become? I hear grunts sometimes, but that seems to be the extent of any speech down here.

But I am getting used to it. I swear, even the silence. There's just one thing I can't really get used to and that's missing you. No, don't get me wrong, Harry, I'm glad that you are alive! You, more than anyone, deserve that.

I miss you so much. I wish I could just talk to you, and that would be enough for eternity. I'd die all over again for just one glimpse, one picture.

I'm sorry I sound so sappy, Harry, but I never got the chance to say any of it alive and I always wanted to and I just hope…and I just hope that it's not too late.

I don't know if you are going to get this, Harry, but I'll hope that you do. I have to hope and I have to pretend, Harry, because that's all I have.

I already know how I'll send this, Harry! The other times I pulled out parchment, it would disappear if I held it crumpled in my hand for too long, lingering. That's what I'll do, Harry – I'll crumple this letter up really small and I'll hold it up for the darkness to take it to you. Will it work, Harry?

Harry, please, you have to respond if it works.

I'm sorry that we fought before I left, I don't even remember why, but you have to believe that I'm sorry, baby. I am so sorry and I miss you so much and I hope you know that I love you so, so much.

Draco

p.s. I hope you can read my writing, Harry, I wrote best as I could sightless. But you'll understand, won't you?

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Dear Harry,

You didn't reply.

Maybe you didn't get my letter? It seems silly now to think that "darkness will take it to you", but that's all I have, don't you see?

Maybe you thought it was a crude joke, from some bastard at the Ministry. Harry, baby, I swear this is not a joke. This is me, pouring what's left of my heart out to you.

I wish I could prove it to you somehow.

I could always tell you about our nights, Harry, but I don't think you would want anyone else to see it. Who knows where this letter may end up, right? I miss you so much, please just hear me!

We got a new guy here today. Or I think it was today – there is no time here. How long have _I_ been here? How long have I been dead, Harry? Please tell me.

He's so loud, you know. It almost makes the silence lift, but not quite. This silence is heavier than any scream of his.

He keeps yelling for "Harmony." Maybe she was his girlfriend? Wife? Sister? I wonder if I was yelling for you at first, just like that. Maybe I was and I just can't remember it anymore. I can't remember a lot of things, Harry.

Maybe he's just some murderer or rapist or stalker or escaped asylum inmate. It wouldn't be so strange, right? I mean, I must be in hell. He must be like that. Am I like that too?

I swear, I tried to change so much for you, Harry. I thought that maybe it would be enough – it always seemed enough for you.

I guess someone had higher standards.

I am sorry, again, that I sound so depressed and morose in my letter, Harry. It can't be too fun to read. But it's not too fun here, you know? Dead people are so quiet and so angry. I think I feel that they're angry, though they don't say anything. Angrier than you were when Snape yelled at you in class.

I miss you being angry. Your jaw set and your eyes narrow, flashing. All our years of fighting – you must have know I enjoyed it too much before I even knew myself.

I think I remember that you were mad at me before I died. What did I do, Harry? Whatever it was, just know that I am sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I swear, I didn't mean it, I know.

I had a dream, Harry. When the new guy was quiet – I think he's still crying, though. Maybe he's not so bad…?

I got sidetracked.

I dreamt about us, Harry. I dreamt that I died, but it detail. There was a guy pointing his wand at you and I just jumped, didn't think. I jumped in front of you, died for you.

That's what I regret the most, Harry. I wish I wasn't dead so that I could die _for_ you. All over again but properly.

I wish I was there to protect you, but it's not like you really need protection from others. I wish I could still protect you from yourself, Harry. I know you'd jump in front of _anyone_ and take the curse for them, but you need someone to do that for you. I'm sorry I can't anymore.

So, what are you doing tonight? Are you going to another Ministry committee meeting? Hah, probably not, you hate those things so much.

How're your friends doing? Probably not too heartbroken and lending you a good supporting hand. That's good, Harry. It's good that they won't care and they'll help you through it.

How's my mom doing, do you know? Please tell me she's okay, Harry. I almost hope she doesn't care either; it would make things so much easier.

Does anyone miss me? Probably not, but it doesn't really matter. I just wish you could read this, Harry. That's all that really matters.

Please, baby, write back if you can. If it's possible, I know you'll figure it out.

Draco

p.s. You know, there is nothing to drink here? Yeah, that kind of drink. I know you hate it, but I wish I could drink just to make the pain go away.

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A/N: Alright, this is a three-installment piece. I'll have the next two chapters shortly.

For those wondering, of _course_ there will be a reply. Just maybe not the type you are looking for.

**Please review so this doesn't feel like an utter failure! I would like to finish posting, after all.**

NS


	2. Dear Draco

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Letters From Hell_

_By Natasha Shaitanova

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**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Harry Potter_.

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Dear Draco, 

Is it you? Is this really, actually you?! I know I am such a fool, but I want to believe this so, so much. Oh God, please let it be you.

Just listen to me – talking to God as though he's listening...Of course, he can't be. You wouldn't be there if he was, Draco, I'm sure!

I must be insane, Draco, otherwise I wouldn't be writing to you, "beyond the grave." But I can pretend, just like you said. Didn't you say that?

I really did believe that first letter was a joke, you know. A nasty joke that could be from absolutely anyone. I don't trust them, Draco, they are all looking at me so strangely. It's like they are all waiting for me to just collapse and roll over, you know? Oh Draco, I just wish you were here to yell at all of them to shut up and mind their own business. Remember? Just like old times.

The Auror department is—

Oh no, wait, I should tell you…well, I should tell you how you died. You know that dream you told me about? Yeah.

It was actually pretty gruesome, Draco…You know they've put the story on the front page of every magazine and printed your best picture and wrote those politically correct things so that I wouldn't get upset?

Yeah. Remember how we went on our last Auror mission? The one concerning that neo-Death Eaters cult, that's right. Well, we took care of the two crazies pretty easy, but we missed one in the back. He just came barreling right out and shot a blasting curse at me.

You jumped in the way…

It was a bloody nasty sight, Draco. Please don't be mad at me, it really was. I know I shouldn't say it, but I was damn glad he killed himself right after. I am just sorry that I couldn't have hit him with something better than the Avada Kedavra.

And don't you dare ask that stupid question I know you're thinking about! Draco, of course I wouldn't let them replace you. I'm without a partner for now, but you know that I can't have another partner again. They wouldn't dare assign someone…

God, I miss you so much…And there I go again, appealing to God. Why did we ever come up with that saying? It feels like a cruel joke.

And speaking of which…haha, I'm just all over the place, aren't I? You would scream at me for being so absentminded if you were here…

Well, I was standing on the roof of our apartment building (no, don't think that, I just went up there to think. I swear, Draco…). It was pretty late in the evening, so I could see all the lights around London. Do you remember how we used to wonder how many others were standing on the roof like us, staring at the emerging stars?

You used to tell me "a million." And I wanted to shout and wave to them all…

There I go, getting lost in my own ramblings again.

So, I was standing like we used to when your letter fell right on top of me, hit me right in the chest. I was confused at first, thought maybe it was someone from the adjacent buildings.

I was so angry when I read it, Draco…I crumpled it up even smaller than it was and threw it right back into the darkness. I just couldn't believe someone would be so callous to pull such a prank…

I spent that night right there on the roof, crying. I don't think I cried like that since your funeral, Draco, and that was four months ago. The Auror department hosted it and asked me to speak. Of course I spoke. You know, I didn't speak to the audience or tell them your accomplishments or try to describe our love or try to justify all that's happened or tried to change their boring, stoic faces.

I spoke to you. Hah, I think they looked at me as though I was crazier than when I said Voldemort was back. You know, back in 4th year? If you can even believe how long ago that was…

Who knows, maybe me speaking to you then made you able to contact me? I don't know anything about contacting the dead, Draco, but I hope so, so, so much that it works. That this is real.

Draco…would you like me to come join you? It sounds like you could use some better company. I swear I won't bore you to death with ministry gossip this time!

Well…I am going to go send this letter to you now. The same way I got yours. I guess, part of me kind of knows you won't get it but…I really want to pretend it wasn't a prank, Draco. I _have_ to!

I miss you so, so, so, so much! You said you would die for me – you know I'd do that for you, Draco! Don't you? Please, tell me you know that.

Love,

Harry

p.s. The reason I was mad at you was because you broke my favorite mug, on accident. You know, that golden one with the snitches? But I forgive you!

I miss you…

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Dear Harry, 

I got your letter! When it hit me smack in the face, I thought it was maybe my neighbor's caked scarf again, but I managed to catch it.

I was so, so happy when I unfolded it Harry! Even the silence seemed to lift for me and I felt like I was breathing again! You know, I stopped breathing a while ago, Harry…I just felt so empty I couldn't even force myself to breathe. I guess it didn't really matter…

I'm dead.

I'm dead and I'm stuck in this hot, dark place clutching your letter as I cry. I'm crying because I can't even read your letter, Harry. Please, you have to understand, you have to forgive me! I just can't see…

But I know it's you, Harry. It has to be. There is no one else that would have replied to me.

You know, I thought so long and hard yesterday (or was it last week?) and I think I remember why you were mad at me. It's all so fuzzy in my head, like trying to think through a hell of a hangover except so much worse. I broke that mug, didn't I? The one you got from Remus and treasured like an heirloom…

I am truly, truly sorry! I wish so much I could just fix it for you or buy another or do _something_. Oh Harry, I just wish I could do something…

I miss you so much.

I can't really even tell you how much I miss you, baby. You know, all those millions of sappy love songs we listened to on the radio? It's funny how I can remember every clichéd line and no one of them is what I want to tell you.

Harry, it's getting to be so excruciating without you…There's really not much else I can tell you in this letter. I just miss you so, so much. I can't breathe, I can barely think, I am literally chocking on how I cannot read your words and I wish to death I could…

I love you.

Draco

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Draco! 

Draco, Draco, Draco, Draco!

Oh Draco, it's your birthday today, did you know that? I can't stay still to even finish this letter.

I know you probably won't be able to read this, Draco, but it doesn't matter because I am going to tell you "Happy Birthday" myself. Just give me a moment to finish these lines, Draco, just to gather myself, and then I will follow the letter straight to you.

We'll be together so soon, Draco, you'll see!

I am so very, very, ridiculously excited! You'll meet me, won't you Draco? You have to be there and you have to hold me so tight and never let go or I think I'd go completely insane…

I love you sosososo much, Draco! Oh Draco, I love you and I am going to tell you that the moment and every moment when I see you!!

Okay, here I come, Draco, I'm coming up. Haha, there's a lock on the door to the roof – that's so funny! Oh Draco, I can't calm myself…

Here we go, Draco, we're finally going to be together again! Just a moment longer, I promise, and it'll be just us. Forever.

I'll see you soon!

Harry

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A/N: This is **not the end.** There is one more chapter which will clarify a good deal of things.

**Please review and tell me what you think about the emotions!** I wasn't sure how effective the dialogue comes across as.

NS


	3. Unwritten

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Letters From Hell_

_By Natasha Shaitanova

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**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Harry Potter. _

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"Ladies and gentlemen, Witches and Wizards…"

Hermione did not look up at the sound of the gravely voice. She accepted the new handkerchief Ginny passed to her at the elbow; hers had been soaked through hours ago.

"…We are gathered here today…"

The orchestra continued to play a soft melody in the background, attempting to fill the staggering void left in the pauses of the heavy voice.

"…To mourn and lament the passing of a great man…"

Hermione heard Ron's breath catch and leaned against his shoulder in response. She did not need to look at his face to know it was just as blotchy and red as her own.

"…A man greater than any in his generation. A man who has given more to our community than the community could ever give back…"

Hermione wrapped a handkerchief over the envelope lying in her lap, to shield it against her renewed flood of tears.

As she sobbed, she wondered cruelly if anyone in the audience understood how true the ornate words really were.

"…A man who has fought with us, laughed with us…_lived_ with us, only to be snatched away in his prime years by a tragedy…"

The orchestra continued playing, heedless of the sea of silent tears as its audience. An occasional whine or moan would sometimes add to a doleful crescendo, but never stopping the piece.

"…This was a man who put _us_ before himself, a man who valued human life without stipulation, a man who would rather save a criminal than save himself…"

Hermione's hands tightened on the envelope, tearing slightly at the damp paper.

What did they even know? Even now, every one of them was playing judge in a gilded courtroom.

"..Some called him foolish, but all admired him. For it takes real courage to—"

Hermione could barely listen. She had already heard all of the oft-practiced lines at rehearsal.

Turning her attention to the envelope, she opened it slowly, gently, as though afraid to disturb the contents. Her fingers shook the same as when she first saw it on his desk.

"…his bravery and dedication was undisputed and beyond anything—"

Hermione turned over the somewhat crumpled sheets of parchment in her hands, smoothing them out. The rustle of those few pages was louder to her than any speech or orchestra.

She choked back a familiar sob as she read the headings for the hundredth time.

"…We may never understand the mind of this man, whom many have come to worship…"

Hermione wanted so desperately to shut her eyes and to pretend that the letters did not exist. That the handwriting was different. That the words didn't reverberate as they did in her mind.

_Dear Harry, Dear Draco, I love you, I love you, I love…_

"…Perhaps his decision was one of grief, perhaps it was one of symbolism, perhaps it was one of a purpose we cannot come to comprehend…"

Hermione was aware of Ginny looking over her shoulder and of the other woman's tears dampening her blouse, but she did not ask for privacy. They had both already wondered endless sleepless hours over the writing.

Hermione fingered the edges of the parchment, recognizing the signs of wear from countless rereading.

How long had he sat there, probably on the roof, staring at the stars and wanting to shout to all of London that it no longer had a thing to offer?

"…There is no use questioning this man's decision because we have long lost the right to do so…"

Hermione tried to breathe against her constricted chest as she imagined wild, racing eyes tracking the feverish writing of pen over parchment, red and irritated from lack of sleep.

Unseeing, uncomprehending, writing unwritten words.

"…There is no space left in the tabloids and the yellow columns and we can only be grateful. We can only be apologetic and forever respectful to the man who handled all the public threw at him and never punished even the most deserving of his critics…"

_Dear Harry_

Hermione let the letters fall into her lap and wrapped her arms around her body. Not against the cold…against the pain.

"…We have never paused to tell him one thank you. That will forever be our gravest sin…"

She should have noticed, she should have looked, she should have helped, she should have tried, tried, tried to understand…

It was her gravest failure…

"…let us have a moment of silence for the man who allowed us to see this century…"

_Dear Harry, Dear Draco…_

Hermione did not need to lay the letters next to each other, compare for the thousandth time, cast a multitude of spells to check…to know the handwriting was the same.

_I love you_

_I miss you, baby_

Unsaid, unwritten words written by the same feverish, possessed hand…mindless of the world beyond his own.

"…To Harry Potter…"

And the orchestra stopped. The coffin floated forward between the rows.

His letters fluttered to the ground as Hermione rose in the similar, futile show of respect.

Perhaps it wasn't her gravest sin.

Was there anything one could do, one still part of the world, to stop a grieving man from collapsing into his own reality?

"…Thank you…"

Stars shone over London but there was no one to shout to them.

There was no one standing on the roof.

There were two coffins and five letters of unwritten words.

_Ich spring fur dich__…

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A/N: …Well, this is it. I'm sorry if you guys wanted a reunion or something along those lines, but I would pick psychosis over spirituality any day. For the sake of the plot…Well, let's just say that this was more effective. 

**Please review to tell me how you responded to this!**

Did it make sense or should I have been more specific? Was it properly conveying emotion or was it stilted?

**Please, this was an experiment in psychological writing; I desperately need your response!**

-NS


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